


Chain Lightning

by OverOnTheBench



Category: Documentary Now!, US Comedians RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Casual Sex, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gentle and Soft: The Story of the Blue Jean Committee, Hair-pulling, Love Bites, Not RPF - first fic for Docnow, Past Drug Use, Self-Denial, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Vaginal Sex, brief drug use (marijuana), docnow, the most niche shit in the universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-04-06 10:58:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19061251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OverOnTheBench/pseuds/OverOnTheBench
Summary: A burgeoning journalist is assigned to interview the former frontman of the Blue Jean Committee. Clark Honus is infamous in the music industry for his falsetto and his abrasive disposition. Despite her initial weariness, the journalist finds herself intrigued by the aging rockstar. As the two become more wrapped up in each other, they are forced to consider if their unexpected connection can lead to any viable future.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This may be the most strange thing I've published, simply because it's niche as hell. Despite being based off a character played by Bill Hader from a parody anthology series, I'm sort of treating it as an original story since most of the backstory will be formed entirely by me. I'm not expecting much response to it, since this is the first work based on a Documentary Now episode, but I've enjoyed writing it so far. If you have any feedback, I'd be glad to hear it!

There was no reason that Ida didn’t want to take on the assignment, besides the fact that she didn’t want to.

 

Well, that wasn’t quite true. She had no “good” reason. Meaning, no reason her editor would recognize as being good.

 

“I’ve never had anyone be so pissy about getting assigned a cover story,” he’d remarked. “You realize this could be a big boost for you, right? All you have to do is get something good out of him. One thing we haven’t heard before. Get in, do your job, get out.”

 

“You know exactly what he’s like,” she’d said, showing him a sensational gossip article about her subject’s second wife as proof. “Everyone in town does. You’re asking me to make a pig fly.”

 

“If anyone on this shit-for-brains staff can get a good story outta Clark Honus, it’s you. I know what I’m doing, otherwise I wouldn’t be your boss. Quit whining and put that energy into coming up with questions.”

 

A week after the conversation and Ida was still fuming at those comments, but she was heading into the interview as prepared as she’d ever be, with over fifty questions. Even better: not a single one mentioned Gene Allen. Only three or four alluded to the Blue Jean Committee at all. Because yeah, she despised this assignment and its subject, but if it could put her byline front and center and turn heads both in the public and at work, the experience would be worthwhile. The way to do that was to avoid boring him with the same canned questions he’d heard for almost four decades.

 

Driving to the designated meeting place, the highway was too quiet. Ida's folder stuffed with material, questions and quotes sat in the passenger seat. She recognized that out of context it was ridiculous to be so bothered at the prospect of being paid to while away an afternoon at an upscale restaurant, listening to a drug-addled washed-up multi-millionaire spiral in his self-serving thoughts - really, she should have been paying someone else, and not the other way around. But after all, this was Clark Honus. She was well aware of his hotheaded nature, and his history of being a womanizer and chauvinist. In her mind he was a boozing, vapid old man just lounging around waiting to die, or perhaps be the victim of a drama-mired, high-profile murder. He was a dickhead - but he had power. Oh well, she said to herself, I might as well entertain him.

 

Ida had met interview subjects in fancy places before, but pulling up to a restaurant - called Ancora - it was obvious this was a bit beyond “fancy”. It was high up on a Malibu cliff overlooking the sea, and compared to the other cars in the lot her respectable, mid-range sedan looked like something a petty criminal would drive. She could tell the valet was having the exact same thought. Inside the restaurant was open and airy, all ivory and high ceilings and dramatic modern art, light classical music floating through the arches. She caught glimpses of several familiar faces, all somewhere between “international fame” and “galactic fame”. The maitre d’ immediately led her outdoors, where there was an expansive patio and a full bar, a fountain bubbling in the center. Behind that fountain, lounging at a table for two and looking out at the placid ocean, was Clark. Ida stood and observed him for a few seconds, as long as she could get away with, to pick out little details she could elaborate on in the intro of her piece. Sipping on a Moscow mule, expression untroubled. Dressed in dark jeans and a breezy shirt, deep red, with one button too many undone. That was all she got in the gentle silence before she stepped forward and he noticed her.

 

“You’re from  Yesteryear, ” he said, a flat statement rather than a question. He didn’t stand to greet Ida but extended his hand, and she shook it, his strength almost startling. His eyes roamed the full length of her body, no attempt made to hide it. Anticipating this, she’d dressed somewhat more modestly than she typically would on a hot evening, but she still wasn’t surprised. 

 

“I’m Ida,” she said though Clark hadn’t asked, taking her seat across from him. “I’m glad we could finally find time to meet.”

 

He smirked, and said nothing. It was obvious she was being evaluated. Many of her subjects, especially male ones, acted the same, but she was resolved to keep him in line and get what she wanted. The way he gazed at her wasn’t intimidating in the slightest - in fact, she rather liked it, but that wasn’t why she was here.

 

“Tell me what made you choose this place,” she continued, relaxing back in her chair.

 

“Is that your opener?” Clark replied, sipping on his drink despite it being empty. The implied mocking wasn’t difficult to miss.

 

“I’m just curious. Is it the view? Or the company? I’d think you’d hate being around these people.”

 

He scoffed. “Slow down there, let’s get a drink in ya before we run head-first into business. You look like you need to relax a bit, no offense.”

 

“I’m relaxed,” she retorted as he called a server over. She regretted the defensiveness in her tone right away. “And I don’t drink on the job.”

 

“Well, then you can get a Shirley Temple, but I get the feeling you’re bullshitting. Come on, order something.”

 

The first challenge. She rose to meet it, ordering herself a whiskey sour. As the server left, Clark’s smile widened.

 

“There,” he said, “was that so hard? Now I know something about you.”

 

“What could you have possibly learned from that?”

 

He leaned back in his chair, his gaze landing on a seagull that looped above the cliff and back over the shore. “You aren’t from around here, you’re stuck in the past, and you don’t like me. In fact, you disliked me before you even got here. That’s the most interesting part.”

 

Inside, Ida was fuming. Did this idiot really think he was so clever for picking her apart like some mediocre barfly?  It was sleazy and unbecoming - and yet, she needed to follow that path. Not because of her job, but because she was overcome by an impulse, a  _ need _ , to take the end of the thread he’d offered and tug on it until he unraveled. Now her mission was twofold - get her story, and wipe the stupid smirk off Clark’s douche-y, ageless face.

 

“I guess this when I’m supposed to ask you to explain your reasoning,” she finally said. The server returned with her whiskey sour and she thanked him, bringing it to her lips. At the same time she switched on her phone’s voice recorder and set it on the table between them both. “Pause whenever you want.”

 

Clark intensified when he knew he had the floor. He sat up straight, his voice clear and strong. Even his hair was animated in the sea breeze. 

 

“You said thank you,” was his first remark. “To the waiter. You said it four or five times in two minutes. That’s not something you hear much around here. So I figure you’re either from up North of here, Washington or something, or from the Midwest. Kinda cute.”

 

Ida didn’t respond, though he was on the right track. The last thing she needed to do was satisfy him.

 

“I know you’re stuck in the past because you work for a magazine that’s stuck in the past, and you drink whiskey sours. That’s a grandma drink, and what are you, thirty?”

 

“Twenty-seven,” she replied. “Negging has never worked, Clark. But I guess it’s preferable to trying to get girls drunk so they give you what you want.”

 

His gaze fixed on her, even but fierce. “I don’t need to use alcohol to get what I want. I don’t have to  _ use _ fuckin’ anything. I just talk.”

 

None of this could be published, and Ida didn’t care. There was proof in Clark’s eyes that he wasn’t impermeable. He was famous for his many indiscriminate conquests over the decades, but he wasn’t going to let himself be painted as a predator or a coward. No way in hell.

 

“So women just fall into your arms?”

 

He shrugged and broke eye contact. “On some level, yeah. Women, men, whoever. Things just happen. It wasn’t always like that. Not until after  _ Catalina _ , obviously. But I was real young, ya know, and that seemed normal. I figured it’d fade once that all fell apart, but it’s been forty years now and I’ve never had an issue with, uh, companionship.”

 

As she gave him room to pause, she considered all he’d just given her to work with. Some of that was way out of left field, and it seemed best to let those tidbits go and drop it somewhere in the article. It’d sell no matter what. New questions sprang up in her head like the racing fires that scarred nearby hills. Her folder stuffed with meticulous preparatory notes sat on her lap, and she slid it into her bag beside the chair.

 

“You forgot the third thing,” she said. “Your last deduction, that I don’t like you. Tell me about that.”

 

That earned a laugh, a tinge of bitterness mixed into it. “You walked in here like you were walking to the electric chair, for one. You sit there as if you’re gonna bolt over the fence and roll down the cliff to get away from me. I dunno if it’s just me you hate, or men in general.”

 

“I don’t hate men,” she replied evenly. “I don’t trust them, but I don’t hate them either.”

 

“Hmm. So it’s your dad, then.”

 

Ida's mouth opened to refute the claim with venom, but she froze and backed off. She’d already let this derail too much, away from an interview and into conversation, one that was unsettling for all its calmness. Clark knew too much about her already. It was his turn.

 

“Your first wife, Dixie. She doesn’t seem like the type to fall into anyone’s arms.”

 

“Hm. True. No, Dixie’s a spitfire. First time we met, she came up with some real zingers for me.” Clark was smiling into his glass as he remembered. “ _ Chicago chickenshit, sausage-slinging fuckface _ , what have you. And she tried to hit me over the head with her guitar. Didn’t seem to want me at all, which was weird, but I says “ _ fine _ ,” y’know, “ _ stay away from me then. _ ” But she didn’t. She was opening for us, and she didn’t have to share the bus, but she did. She’d come find me backstage and insult me for no reason. Got to the point where I wrote a song about her and what a fuckin’ witch she was. “The Cauldron.” Never recorded it, but I did it live a few times. First time was at a San Diego show. Boy, she wanted to  _ kill  _ me. She comes at me with her guitar again, her hair’s all wild, eyes on fire, y’know...I just grab her arm and hold it there, and I says  _ “woman, you need to chill the fuck out, go smoke a J or something. _ ” And that was it. She just went kinda limp. That was the first night we hooked up. I locked Gene outta the bus and when he finally got in there I knew he wanted to swing at me, but all he said was ‘I’m happy for you.’ Christ, he was an oddball.”

 

As he let the story flow, his gaze was fixed first on the surf below, then the gold watch on his right wrist. Ida followed his gaze and noted the edge of the watch - part of an inscription, but she couldn’t make it out before he moved it and ran a hand through his mussed hair.  She’d been observing him, but observing the story too as it painted itself in her head. She could feel the scene unfolding in front of her, and smell it too, a whorl of tobacco-stained air rushing past her face as Dixie in all her wispy glory charged at a younger, even cockier Clark. It was hard not to be transported back - a hot August evening in the Valley where wavy lines rose off the pavement in the dusk, and the heavy and acrid marijuana smell rose in the breeze - and wonder how meeting him back then would have been similar or different. 

 

“You’re a gifted storyteller,” was what she finally said after it all passed.

 

Clark arched his brow. “100% true, doll. Scout’s honor.”

 

“I never said it wasn’t. You just paint a vivid picture. I’m surprised that you haven’t taken up songwriting.’’

 

“I’ve written plenty of songs,” he asserted. “I just don’t advertise it.”

 

“Songs that are on the radio?”

 

“Sure, plenty. Been ghostwriting since the early '90s. You think everything I have came from fuckin’ Catalina Coolers? Hell no. I got over seventy platinum singles under my belt now. I been in you people’s ears all this time.”

 

His last word was clipped, like was stopping himself from going further. A bit of color had risen in his cheeks, and for all his years on the west coast, Ida thought his accent had grown thicker as his volume increased. A few of the elite deigned to shake their heads once back and forth in the general direction of their table, and a thought struck her; he still wasn’t one of them. When it came to material value he was worth just as much as other industry figureheads, but he’d never been in the inner circle. For all his acclaim and scandal and accolades - a Hall of Famer, for fuck’s sake - he was still alone in his castle, and looked down on as schmoozing and undeserving fossil from somewhere low-class and boring. And in a way, she was one of them.

 

“If I’m hearing you,” she said with some caution, “you want people to know that you’re a hard worker. And you have been for a long time.”   
  


“Fuck yeah I’m a hard worker,” he replied, though much of the venom had gone out of his tone. “Y’know, all you people wanna talk about is what I got, what I had. Not what I do, not what I give. That documentary made it look like I never done a day’s work in my fuckin’ life. Fails to mention, who was the one selling us? Who booked our shows, paid promoters, got us places on time, networked and got our name out there when our fucking managers were fucking around at the Beverly Hills Hilton? That was me, doll. And I never said anything, I let...well.” He smirked. “Guess I’m saying it now, eh?”

 

“You can’t hold stuff in forever,” she said, returning the smile. “It’s rare to see anyone represented for who they are in our line of work. It’s about selling magazines, or ad space, or whatever. I don’t think it’s personal, but I bet it feels that way.”

 

“Pretty much. I mean, not like I haven’t had time to accept it. But I gave you all ammo in the first place, I recognize that. You want another whiskey sour?”

 

“Oh, I’m not-” Ida looked down at her glass to find it empty excepting some half-vanished ice cubes. “Um...well, I better not have another, since I’m driving, but I guess I was thirstier than I thought.”

 

“Guess so,” Clark said, motioning for the server to bring water. “Listen, I wonder if it might be, uh, helpful for your article if I showed you my house. I can show you things I’ve been working on, my charity stuff too. Tonight’s no good for me, but how about Friday? If you’re free, I’ll give ya the address.”

 

She regarded him with no rush to answer.  Access to his house would be helpful in painting a whole picture. Her office had initially requested to meet at his place and been denied, so it was clear she had earned some measure of trust in the short time they’d spent in each other’s company. However, certain...things had not escaped her notice. How he called her doll. How his gaze would occasionally dart below her eye line. The faint glimmer of something, a sort of recognition, in his eyes. No, it made no sense, but it was what she felt. This line of work taught her to go with her gut. He wanted more from her than what was called for, and if the suggestion had been presented to her a mere half hour before he would have recoiled in disgust. Now, that certainty had faded into grey. Being alone with him would prove challenging, and perhaps it was irresponsible to put herself in the situation. But if it helped her to do her job, she didn’t have much choice.

 

“I’m free on Friday,” she said, “after five. You have my number?”

 

“I do.”

 

It wasn’t as if either of them had anywhere to be. The meeting had come to a tail end that Ida could sense, and she figured Clark could too. She’d been allotted a certain amount of attention and received it in full. In return he’d received an allotment of patience, and the longer his eyes stayed on her, the more the patience meter ran overtime. Gathering her things and shutting off the voice recorder, she gave him a short goodbye and walked away without waiting for a response. He shouted “Friday, five thirty” after her anyway. Even in the setting sun, she was overheating.

  
  


***

 

Sometimes in summer the heat would abate at night, and give way to brisk ocean-driven air currents that pushed past the hills and chased a faint haze out of the valley. This wasn’t one of those nights. 

 

Two sources of light glowed in Ida's cramped living room: her laptop screen and her salt lamp, shaped like an elephant. Her loose throw blanket slipped from the top of her knees to her ankles as she leaned over to pick up her laptop once more. She closed out of the Netflix screen and was confronted by a blinking cursor on a stark white digital page. The sight was normal for her, but now it made her jump because it brought a figure back to the forefront of her thoughts, clearing the comfortable fuzz that resided there after reruns of  _ Daria _ . She’d at least titled the document - after twelve minutes of trying earlier in the evening, she’d typed “clark honus sucks, but not as bad as you think.” She would need to fix it before submitting, but not yet.

 

Before giving up for the night and succumbing to the heavy, sleepy heat, she forced herself to complete one sentence. Just one.

 

_ He’s everything I expected, but not how I expected it. _

 

Backspace. Trash. Made no sense.

 

_ His voice making clear his roots from the first word- _

 

Backspace. Too pulp novel.

 

_ His drink of choice - a Moscow mule. Bright, crisp, unassuming. _

 

Big backspace. This isn’t Epicurious.

 

_ Red looks good on him. _

 

Ida sighed and closed the laptop lid.

 

In her room, the sheets on her bed swished against her tossing and turning, searching for a spot on the bed that wasn’t permeated by heat. She settled on her side, facing the wide-flung window and listening for distant sirens. Before setting her phone aside she selected a “soothing” music station, and the second song to appear on shuffle was "Catalina Breeze." The coincidence warranted an eye-roll and a quick pausing, after which she decided it’d be best to sleep with a podcast on instead. Clark had texted around nine, soon enough to be relevant but late enough to renew ideas that had faded over hours. And all it said was his address- 

 

_ No _ , she chastised herself, turning away from the window.  _ Don’t bother thinking about Clark unless you’re being paid to _ . What reason was there? 

 

Sleep proved elusive.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a day for follow-up and confrontation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i apologize for how long it took to publish this chapter. i had most of it ready soon after publishing the first one, but got writer's block at a certain part. i think - rather, hope - that it's worth the wait. either way, let me know.
> 
> i'm honestly sort of amazed at the positive attention this fic has gotten - thank you so much for the support!

Friday was a cloudless vacuum looming over Ida. She spent the bright morning at her office sucking down nitro cold brew, black and unsweetened, and clicking between tabs in a futile cycle. Just after lunchtime, Alexandra, her friend on the other side of the cubicle wall, warned her to stop clicking her pen or she’d dump her third coffee of the day right on her head.

 

“I heard coffee’s good for your hair,” Ida remarked, not bothering to look away from her screen. She was reading some gossip rag, nothing in particular, except it was about Clark. A long-buried back issue, nearly twenty-five years old, questioned whether or not he’d returned to rehab following divorce number two. It offered no answers. It was irrelevant to her own writing, and to everything else, but here she was. There was no reason to keep putting herself through agony waiting for her meeting this evening. In fact, there was no reason to feel agony whatsoever. She’d already met Clark, and gotten through their interesting first meeting without so much as a scratch. He wasn't worth mere annoyance, let alone distress. And yet, her stomach churned - and that couldn’t be completely blamed on the coffee. 

 

Her co-workers began sneaking out with mumbled excuses around 1:30, as was typical for Fridays. By 3:30, her leg was bouncing with such force that it rattled the pen cup on her desk. As Alexandra darted out for the day, she said “I hope you get to relax this weekend,” and it was all Ida could do not to flip her off. Another five minutes spent spinning in her chair wound her up to the point of mumbling “fuck it” and shutting off her computer. She gathered her things and made a beeline for the bathroom. Under the fluorescent light the wilting of her hair and makeup was pronounced in the mirror, frizz forming a faint halo and vibrant lip color becoming patchy. She set her bag down on the counter and sighed, a valve release on the pressure that had been building for three days. It wasn’t that her piece was proving difficult to write - in fact, she kept thinking of new things to add or revise. Last night she’d roused herself from near-sleep at 1am to rewrite the opening sentence. Ida had been obsessive over her articles before, and she could use it to her advantage most of the time. Somehow, this was different. In her bag she’d packed a change of top, and though it was clean she was regretting her choice - a crop top, thin fabric, pale lavender, off-the-shoulders. Good for the unforgiving heat, bad for the occasion. She could already see and feel the expression Clark would fix on her - bemusement, mild disdain, an ultimate silent pronouncement of “I knew it.” Ida had picked up the top this morning and evaluated it before stuffing it in her bag, and she knew exactly why. But he would know why, too. Despite the times spent overthinking, she changed into the top anyway and freshened up, just as she’d do for any normal interview. It  _ was _ a normal interview.

 

The idling engine and the caffeine made her hands vibrate on the steering wheel once she was stuck on the PCH. As she checked her messages to verify Clark’s address yet again, she realized she was over an hour ahead of schedule, so eager to abridge her time at the office that she’d neglected the designated 5:30 meeting time. It crossed her mind to take the time to grab an early dinner, but that would mean even more time sitting, waiting, trapped by thoughts and the lack thereof.  In the car she felt like an ant under a magnifying glass. She would show up on her terms, not his. The playing field needed to be leveled.

 

I sound insane, she thought as she dialed Clark’s number. After three and a half rings, his voice overtook her car speakers. “Don’t tell me you can’t make it.”

 

Ida floundered for an answer to the pronouncement she hadn’t expected. “Uh, no, Clark. Hi. I was just call-”

 

“ ‘Cause you wouldn’t cancel an appointment 90 minutes before it happens, right? You wouldn’t be that rude.”

 

“No, of course not.”

 

“...Good.” Clark’s softening tone was complemented by a rush of air through the receiver-she guessed he was outside. “I figured I could count on you, doll.”

 

Ida had no patience to read into whatever weird shit he was trying to imply. “Right. I just wanted you to know I was able to leave work early. If you’re ready for me, I can be there at 4:45.”

 

He paused, and sighed. “Normally, I’d say no, and probably add on a go fuck yourself. But lucky for you, I got nothing going on. So yeah, 4:45.”

 

It was easy to recall why she’d first disliked him so much. “Fine. Okay. Thank you.”

 

“Plus, you’re already on your way.”

 

She couldn’t even see Clark, but this sensation and that of his sharp, hawkish gaze were the same. With a quick “see you soon” she ended the call and finished the last of her cold brew in seconds.

 

Ida’s map led her off the freeway and onto narrow, smooth streets winding through the hills. Whenever she drove through any of the high-end neighborhoods she couldn’t help but wonder if the residents were lonely. Sure, her own curbside was littered with trash and the most spectacular view she could hope for was that of the downstairs neighbor’s cat on her windowsill, but the scrubby cliffs of Malibu invoked a sense of desolation. She supposed that most people living out here valued their alone time, but nothing about the sprawling villas near the beach or the precarious-looking hillside mansions felt secure enough to be comfortable. She wondered if Clark’s home would be so sterile. She arrived in his circular driveway at 4:43, careful not to knock over any planters lining the way, and noted the bright array of flowers and shrubs that decorated the front entryway. The modern exterior of the home betrayed nothing about the identity or personality of its owner, besides a value placed on privacy, given that it was impossible to view from the street. She wouldn’t have guessed he’d be one to use flora as a barricade - in fact, she’d expected more along the lines of a high Gothic fence. And maybe six or seven big, loud dogs.

 

Another tiny self-check in the rearview mirror made her chastise herself, and she shot off a quick “I’m here” text to Clark before getting out and walking down the path to his front door. It opened just as she arrived at the stoop, and his form filled the threshold. 

 

“Didja have to text?” he quipped, holding up his phone. 

 

“I just wanted to let you know,” she said, “I didn’t want to presume you were looming by the window watching for me.”

 

Clark snorted. “That’s what the fuckin’ doorbell’s for. It’s right there.”

 

“Doorbells can be loud and intrusive. I didn’t know if you had a dog that’d bark or something.”

 

“I guess you should have asked last time,” he said, finally standing aside to let her in. “Some journalist.” 

 

Ida glossed over the taunt and stepped into the foyer, amidst Clark’s grumbles about “letting the A/C out.” She slipped off her sandals out of habit and glanced around as she followed him down the sweeping white stairs into the main living area, careful not to betray any amazement in her expression. Despite being devoid of other people, open spaces and light colors were inviting rather than cold and sterile. The spacious, state-of-the-art kitchen was off to the right; the large, round living room was a step or two below the kitchen and dining area. Wide floor-to-ceiling windows brightened each room, and the sun beginning its descent cast warm rays on the marble floors. The furniture was tasteful with some retro touches, hearkening back to an era decades past. Outside the pristine pool glimmered and rippled in the slight breezes, the dappling light effect sometimes refracting onto the walls inside. 

 

Clark walked to the bar while Ida stuck to the perimeter of the living room, going between eyeing the abstract art and sculptures and eyeing him. He wore white Bermuda shorts and a blue linen shirt, unbuttoned, a few spots of moisture dotting the fabric. Dark sunglasses sat on top of his head. Even in the shade and artificial cool of indoors, sweat still gleamed on his skin. She wondered how he’d been spending his day - maybe lounging by the pool, swimming, listening to music. Maybe yelling at a couple people on the phone. At the very least, he hadn’t spent his time pacing and spinning ridiculous ideas about this meeting. He approached her and handed her a tall glass filled with something deep orange.

 

“It’s hot as balls,” he declared, as if that was atypical for Malibu in August. “You wanna sit or get a grand tour?”

 

“Show me whatever you think is relevant,” she said, taking out her phone to record voice. The drink was sweating in her hand and she took a sip - tequila, grapefruit, grenadine. A sunrise, or sunset, it didn’t really matter. Clark fixed her with an odd, unreadable look for an instant before walking back towards the staircase. In a round room off the foyer was his memorabilia showcase, which he passed by, turning back to her and saying “Nothing everyone hasn’t seen before.” Down the hall he opened the door to a home theater, dark and cool with about fifteen seats. He flipped on the light and Ida glimpsed an old film projector next to the newer one. 

 

“You have any favorites you watch on here?” she asked, approaching it. She tilted her head as she looked at the shelves holding film reels. “Looks like a lot of Hitchcock.”

 

“ _ Rear Window _ ’s my all time favorite,” he said behind her. “And I’ve got every Hepburn and Tracy movie. But I also have a ton of god-awful B-movies. I buy the old film off friends and watch them just to talk shit.”   
  


Ida grinned. “I’ve seen some pretty wild collections, but I think a terrible B-movie collection is the only one I’ve actually wanted for myself.”

 

“It’s the best part of being rich.” Clark flashed a smile, and he was on his way out before Ida could register it. She scrambled to follow again and he didn’t look back. “What’d you say your last name was?”

 

“It’s Russo,” she stated, rolling her eyes. “It’s on my business card. And on my emails.”

 

Clark pretended not to hear. “Ida Russo. Wanna see my studio, Ida Russo?”

 

“Yeah, of course.”

 

The studio was on the other side of the house, and Ida resisted the urge to poke her head into an open bedroom door. When he led her into the room, she felt like she’d stepped back in time at least thirty years. Much different from the rest of the house, this room had clutter; long shelves across one wall were filled with records and CDs, and Clark’s desk was piled with notebooks and papers. The far end of the room had a grand piano, a few guitars, and other instruments and audio equipment. The wall without shelves was adorned with album covers and photos. Some of them featured Clark with various other artists and high-powered friends, while others depicted city scenes that appeared to be taken in Chicago. The faint smell of weed hung throughout the space, mingling with something floral and old papers. Here Ida could feel his presence, his disposition and his ideas, and it gave her some weak, twisting thrill in her chest.

 

“What do you think?” Clark said, and Ida jumped a bit as she realized he was still right by the door. She'd been wandering through the space unled. That look from before had returned, and now she had a stronger idea of what it was.

 

“It's beautiful,” she replied, honest yet vague. “You must spend a lot of time here.”

 

He scoffed. “That's what you got? Come on, you've been scanning my place like you've got fucking Terminator vision, all to say it's beautiful?”

 

It wasn't an outburst, really. He was raising his voice, gesturing a little more, but the question was genuine. He was asking, in her view, for an honest opinion of his home. Moreover, of the most intimate room in his home.

 

“I guess what I think doesn’t really matter here, Clark,” she said, gentle and even. “It’s about you. You should tell me more about the pictures on the wall.”

 

“What fun is that?” he said without smiling. “To just tell you, that's like cheating. You tell me. What's it all add up to? Analyze me, doll. Give it a title, an opening line, or why the fuck are you here?”

 

As he said this he took a few steps into the room, and he sighed and set his half-empty drink on his desk. The metal straw clinking against the glass echoed in the stillness between them. Ida swallowed and crossed her arms. He wasn't being fair.

 

“You don't think I'm here to listen,” she stated, “just to judge.”

 

“That’s what everyone comes here for,” Clark snapped. “You've barely even talked to me since you got here, so lay it on me. Been dizzy since I woke up today, thinking of what’s going on in that fucking brain of yours when you look at me.”

 

His pronouncement was so sharp it knocked the wind out of her. She stood barefoot with toes curling in the middle of his studio, her face growing warm. 

 

“Fine,” she said, her volume rising too. “I think this room is where you feel safe. All your space and amenities are here to please other people. You pretend to push them away and be an asshole, but you want them to be happy here. You want them to think you're sophisticated with all your art pieces and the wine in the kitchen, because no one’s ever wanted to believe you're sophisticated enough to fit in here. In this room, you don't have to worry about being sophisticated, so here's all the shit you actually care about. It's like this room and probably your bedroom are the only spaces in the house that belong to you, but you're here by yourself.”

 

Clark was leaning on the desk and watching her without moving a muscle, and she didn't register that she was yelling until after the fact. She clammed up right away. Had she lost her mind, shouting at an interview subject? She didn't know what the fuck was going on anymore but she knew she'd crossed more than one line. Both of them had.

 

“So I'm lonely,” Clark said, his voice normal volume again. “That's the overarching theme, I guess.”

 

“I don't know,” she said. “That's not my place to say. I just figure I would be.”

 

“Christ, stop that. You know who in my life tells me what they really think? Fucking nobody. They all think I'd go ballistic. Which, yeah, that's my fault. But you're not afraid to just…tell me.”

 

“I've got no reason to be afraid. I've dealt with much worse.”

 

He paused. “Well, that's kinda depressing for you, I guess.”

 

Even in the air conditioned room, Ida was sweating. Clark stood straight and came closer, standing near his guitar. It looked like he might stop and play it, but he didn't. Maybe he decided against it, or maybe he'd never wanted to play at all. She had him figured out, but at the same time she had no idea, no way of knowing. God, she  _ wanted _ to know.

 

“Which artists have you been writing for lately?” she asked, hating how it sounded. Clark’s mouth quirked in something that was a cousin of a smile.

 

“You don't care about my answer.”

 

“No, I do.”

 

“Just not right now.”

 

She looked down and heard him padding over the area rug, stopping in front of her. Her gaze stayed on the floor, then traveled to the piano, to the pictures, anything.

 

“You should turn the phone off,” he murmured, and his finger rose to push under her chin, raising her gaze of his own volition. Just as Ida had suspected would happen - once he was that close, once they were staring at each other, it was over for them both. As their eyes stayed locked, she reached into her pocket for the phone and stopped the voice recorder. Clark didn't have any witty response for that. Instead his hands moved to her waist. “You’re shaking.”

 

“I had a lot of coffee today,” Ida said. It came out as a whisper. He still had sweat on his brow, and he smelled like coconuts and chlorine. He had strength in his grip, but it was yielding - if she wanted to pull away, he’d let her. Ida didn’t want to pull away. 

 

For days she’d been denying herself the thought of Clark so much as touching her, and it had become such a chore that she was exhausted by it. That was it - she wasn’t intimidated by the prospect of being alone with him at all. The work of suppressing her excitement had been what made her body so taut and rigid she felt she might snap in half. And as his hands skimmed up her sides, riding up the fabric of her top, the tightness was fading from her muscles. Her hands pressed against his chest, brushing aside sky-blue linen to make first contact with his warm, bronzed skin. Clark sighed through his nose and leaned in - not for her mouth, as she’d expected, but her neck, pressing light kisses along the side and nipping a spot above her collarbone. It was impossible for Ida to suppress a gasp. Her eyes slid closed and she wound her arms around his neck without a thought. They were flush to each other now, and Clark’s arm tightened around Ida’s waist. He was much taller, by almost a foot, and she was unsure if her feet had left the ground or he was just making her feel so light she couldn't tell the difference. 

 

“You’re something else,” he mumbled just below her ear. His grip loosened and he brushed her hair back as he pulled away, just enough to look at her. “You really get under my fuckin’ skin, doll. You know that?”

 

“Why’s that?” she questioned, her tone a touch too innocent. She stared not into his eyes, but at his mouth. 

 

“You’re irritating as fuck. You’re a tight-ass and you act like nothing bothers you.”

 

“Wrong,” she countered. “You bother me.”

 

“I know.”

 

“You’re a prick.”

 

“That’s it. Let it out.”

 

“You think I’m a fucking game or something. And you look at me like a piece of meat.”

 

He smirked, and she noticed how dark his eyes had become. “Weird, I could say the same thing about you.”

 

“I don’t-”

 

“You do. Don’t even say it. You know I’m right.” 

 

“Fuck off,” she hissed, without a single thought of letting go of him. Both of them were panting, and she didn’t know who would be the first of them to move, or where they’d move to.

 

“You think I don’t take you serious. Couldn’t be farther from the truth. You’re smart, you’re perceptive. I bet you intimidate every dull motherfucker who tries to get close to you. They couldn’t keep up with you if they tried. But you let them try to talk you up at boring parties. You can’t stand it, because you love playing mind games. You love trying to get the last word. I think it turns you on. The more I play around with you, the more you respond. I’ve barely touched you, and I bet you’re already wet.”

 

Ida was so wrapped up in him that it took her a second to think of whether or not he was right. She realized that he was. Warmth erupted over her skin and low in her stomach. The aggravating smugness in his face was begging to be slapped or kissed away. Instead of confirming or denying anything, she said “Who says you don’t bore me?”

 

“You do. You’re still here.”

 

“You’re going to bore me if you don’t quit talking. I knew you liked the sound of your own voice, Clark, but this is a bit much.”

 

“Fucking brat.”

 

He turned on his heel and walked away, and Ida clamored to follow him back down the hall through the open bedroom door that had intrigued her mere minutes ago - had it been so little time? Clark gave her no chance to survey her surroundings as pressed her against the wall, and even his kiss had some anger behind it. One of his hands went to the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair, and the other slid under her shirt again and cupped her breast through the thin padding of her  bra. There was no urgency or pressuring in his touch - instead, unbridled confidence. Ida wasn’t in control of how she reacted to his touch. She arched into his hands, sighed against his mouth, knowing in the back of her mind that she was giving Clark exactly the satisfaction he was seeking. And not only was she beyond caring, she  _ needed _ to do it. She’d made her decision days ago when she first laid eyes on him. Just once, she needed to stop thinking, and he was the willing subject of her indiscretion.

 

Clark’s deft and exploring hands, somewhat rough on bare skin, slid up her back and pushed the feather-light top over her head. Ida felt secure in his embrace and allowed him to lead her over to the bed. It didn’t take much effort to move his loose shirt off his shoulders, and he let his arms fall so it dropped to the floor. They both stared for a brief moment, eyes roaming over the body of the other, noting details and vying to be the first one to come up with a fitting remark. Ida won out, saying “Of course you have a round bed.”   
  


“Of course you have a tattoo of a bird,” he retorted, sitting on the bed. She didn’t even try to respond, fixated on how his toned chest rose and fell with increased heaviness, bordering on frenzy. He extended a hand and traced a finger over the small line tattoo on her rib cage. It burned - his touch, his gaze, all of it, and instead of moving away she sought it out. She stepped close again and allowed Clark to reach behind her to unhook her bra, which he did with no fumbling or effort. She shrugged it off, tension in her back releasing. One moment she was bared to him, the next she found herself in his tight embrace as he trailed open-mouthed kisses and teasing bites across her collarbone and breasts. He was zeroed in on what he wanted, no longer bothering to stop for quips and repartee - and really, there was no need. The little challenges and insults were lures, and she’d latched onto every single one with unapologetic awareness. She sucked in a shaky breath, her hands landing in his hair and raking through it, using desperate motion to relieve the absolute chaos rocketing through her body. His mouth was an epicenter, radiating the type of heat that almost burns too much to withstand, but not quite. There was slight stinging when he bit her nipple, only augmenting the heat and coaxing out a whimper she didn’t want to let go.

 

Space became an unimportant concept. Whether she was in Clark’s lap or lying under him on the bed didn’t matter, as long as he was still touching her, as long as she could feel his strength and weight keeping her just where he wanted. His breathing betrayed urgency and feverishness despite the steady exploring of his hands, sliding down her shorts and then panties one after the other. She didn’t even have time to consider how she looked or felt to him, bare and exposed in his bed - he was sucking a mark below her breast, fingers dancing up her inner thigh, and the delight he found in teasing her was palpable. 

 

“Damn,” he breathed when his touch met the wetness of her folds for the first time. Gone was the previous smugness of knowing he was the one doing this to her; instead, his eyes betrayed a certain awe, mixed with a dark and carnal energy. Ida whimpered and felt the strain of willing her hips to remain still, then she gave herself permission not to strain, not to hold back. There was no point in restricting herself. Clark’s finger dragged upward and found her clit, circling it with light pressure. Noncommittal, teasing. Ida wasn’t having it - she wasn't done with the banter after all. It couldn't be left alone.

“Are you just gonna waste my time,”  she said, looking down at him, “or are you gonna fuck me?” 

 

Clark grinned, and a thrill ran through her as his finger slipped down to press inside her. It was an intrusion, exactly what she was chasing. “You want that? You want me fucking you?”

 

“Did I stutter?”

 

“Hmm.” Inside her his finger curled somewhat,  though he didn’t push it deep. His eyes were still locked with hers, and when Ida let out another frustrated whine and rolled her hips, he suddenly pinned them down. “I wonder where you get off being so fucking demanding.” 

 

Before Ida could snap back at him, Clark withdrew his finger and backed away. She began to sit up but he pushed her back onto the mattress, bearing over her and growling “Stay” as he shoved down his shorts and boxers at the same time. His cock was exposed, hanging heavy and rigid, and she felt a new surge of warmth and wetness as she stared. It was just large enough that she vaguely wondered how it would feel, if she could take it. Of course even  _ this _ had to be a challenge with him. The sight was punctuated by another command from him; “Turn over. Now.”

 

When Ida didn’t obey him right away, he surged forward and gripped her thighs like a vice, using the leverage to flip her onto her stomach. She let out a surprised huff of air, and it led into a small moan as he continued his manhandling, pulling up her hips until she was balanced on her knees. She propped herself up on her elbows and turned to look back at Clark. The sudden movement, the sensation of his large hands claiming her, consumed her focus until he spoke again, his voice low and as rough as the way he touched her.

 

“Condom?” he said, throwing it out without any weight or implication. As tempting as it was to say no and throw all caution to the wind, Ida found herself nodding, and he stood to open the nightstand drawer next to her. With one hand searching, giving no warning, his other hand shot out and tangled in her hair. She gasped, sharp and raw, as he tugged and made her look up to him.

 

“I wasn’t sure I’d get you like this.” He sounded almost dangerous now, and her spine arched and tingled. “You’re even better than I thought. You look so fucking good bent over for me, pussy dripping...I wanna hear you say you want it again.”

 

Her heart was pounding in her neck, in her chest, between her legs. “I want it. You know I want it.”

 

“Yeah? Do I? What’s it you want?”

 

“Fuck me. Jesus Christ, quit being an asshole and fuck me into the fucking mattress.”

 

His grip on her hair relaxed, but not entirely. “That’s good. That’s all I wanted, baby. Just to hear you talking like the slut you are.”

 

His hand slid down her back as he repositioned himself behind her, and another thrill went through her as she heard the tearing of the condom wrapper. If any other man talked to her the way Clark did, blunt and antagonizing, she’d have left already. With him, all she felt was building need. And when he finally satisfied the pressure and frustration he’d created, his cock pressing into her opening with insistence, her moan was one of both shock and relief. His tight renewed grip on her ass steadied her when her knees wobbled - she was overwhelmed by the speed and force he was already using in his thrusts, the motion of his hips fluid and precise. He was done messing around. Ida could do nothing but ball her fists in the sheets and let his deep and powerful movements coax noises out of her that she never knew she could make. 

 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Clark growled, and he leaned forward to tangle his fingers in her hair again. Ida cried out and propped herself up on her hands, and his grip became more sure. “You take it so goddamn perfectly. I wish you could see how fucking good you look, bent over with your pussy wrapped around me like this…”

 

Something about his voice fed into her satisfaction and feverish need to feel everything he had. She whined in response to the dirty talk and pushed her hips back, matching the pace of his thrusts. It was obvious from the sound of Clark’s labored breathing that he was holding back noises that she was letting flow freely, even more so as he bent over her and pressed light kisses up her spine and neck. The angle of their coupling shifted, just barely, but enough to send shockwaves radiating down her legs and up through her torso, gradually intensifying. He was hitting the exact right spot inside her, stretching her enough to feel full without pain, and the way he surrounded her and let out small exhales and groans next to her ear introduced a new, acute connection, a closeness that was unraveling them both. Ida was half-conscious of the filth Clark was panting in her ear, alternating between praising her - her body, her movements, the way she responded to him - and growling harsh names and degradation, as bold and forceful as how he was moving inside her. And she found herself wanting more. She was chasing down her orgasm, and each time the word  _ slut  _ or  _ whore _ ripped out of Clark, she felt herself inching closer, faster and faster. And the second she felt the waves cresting...he slowed, almost to a standstill. Ida let out a whine in protest, and realized how broken and hoarse she sounded.

 

“Just wait,” she heard him say, and then his chest was no longer pressed against her, and the sound and feeling of his cock pulling out of her only heightened her distress. It lasted mere seconds. Again he took hold of her thighs and pulled, and she found herself on her back once more, splayed out on the mattress. When Clark bent over her and pushed in once again, the urge to cling to him was so natural she didn’t even think. He smirked and kissed her roughly as she crossed her ankles behind his back, and renewed his powerful thrusts. She bit his lip and elicited a curious hum from him. He bit back. Then again and again, down her jaw, neck, chest. The worry of marks crossed her mind for a few brief seconds, but she wanted the marks. He knew she did, and she knew he knew. It was uncanny what he knew or guessed about her wants and needs. 

 

“So fucking beautiful,” he panted, in an awestruck way that made her wonder if he was talking to himself. The experience of facing him as he fucked her was new and foreign, the angle and the view it offered of his eyes, of his face. The signs that he was edging closer were subtle but plain to her all the same. Ida was as drunk on reading his face as she’d been the moment they’d locked eyes. Had it been only days ago? Since they’d met she’d felt a vast range of emotion towards him, and seen that range reflected back at her in his gaze. What she saw there now, she had no frame of reference for. She was compelled to close her eyes.

 

“Please,” she gasped, “Clark, please, I need-”

 

“I know. I  _ know _ . Tell me.”

 

“You feel so fucking good, I  _ can’t _ ...I’m gonna come, I’m so...fuck,  _ fuck, Clark, f- _ ”

 

Ida’s cursing gave way to breathy, high-pitched gasps, shocked by the climax she’d known was coming. She’d never been more unprepared. Her toes curled so hard that vague cramping stiffened her legs. When the jagged waves of pleasure began to subside, she registered that her fingernails had dug into the flesh of Clark’s back, and he was groaning not from pain but from his own orgasm, brought on by the erratic rippling of her walls around him. He was speaking but she couldn’t comprehend it, and that was okay.

 

His body was absent from hers within moments. A few recovering breaths were shared between them, then he was gone. He left her in the middle of the bed and made his way to the far side of the room, disappearing into what must have been the bathroom, walking as if his legs hadn’t just been shaking as hard as her own. The faint whoosh of a rushing shower brought Ida back to earth. It was an earth where she didn’t know where her clothes had ended up, and didn’t know what the sheets were made of. All she knew was that she still felt weak and achy, and that Clark wouldn’t be returning to the too-big bed anytime soon. 

 

Her feet landed on the carpet and propelled her to the only points of reference she had in the alien space. Underwear, bra, shorts, shirt. Each garment had gained new wrinkles, stains, or both. Her bag laid where she’d dropped it in the hallway, not noticing its loss in her fervor to follow a stranger into his dim, dreamy bedroom.

 

Outside, it was jarring to see that the sun hadn’t set. In fact, it hadn’t sunk much farther at all. Ida sat in the hot silence of her sedan without moving for a full minute before pushing the key into the ignition with a fumbling hand. She wanted to be on the freeway before Clark left the shower.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It happened. It's out there. Neither Ida nor Clark are quite sure how to go forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i did this instead of writing a paper lmao
> 
> first, sorry this took so long. second, sorry if it isn't that....i dunno, hot? i feel like this chapter is mostly a bridge to where i want things to go, which is why it's taken so long for me to tackle and feel good about publishing. i think things will move faster from here on out.
> 
> again, i'm still blown away by the response this has gotten. thank you so much for your patience and kind words.

Two months passed. Then, one morning, a packet of glossy paper swished and fell onto Ida’s laptop keyboard.

 

“Looking good, right?” said Jeremy, Ida’s boss. She turned towards his voice, but he was already walking back in the direction of his office. Before he disappeared behind the door, he shouted back “Online version’s live, too.”

 

“Oh,” Ida said.

 

It had been weeks now since she’d devoted any real thought or energy to this article. After the fateful afternoon, she’d taken a day or two before going back in to finish the profile, then sent it off to be machined and cut down into whatever Jeremy wanted. For once, she didn’t much care about the lack of agency she had over her own work. A lack of involvement with formatting or fact-checking or photography didn’t bother her one bit. She approved copy edits with a single click, leaving the new version of the document unopened. Once the debacle was over, there were more projects for her to pursue. It was pointless to dwell.

 

Now, she was compelled to leaf through the magazine in front of her. She navigated to the website, too, and right away her title, her byline, were emblazoned on the page and screen, almost shouting at her from their space next to Clark’s photo. In the magazine, his form took up nearly an entire page. It was the first time Ida had seen Clark’s face since the encounter, and for good reason. She worried there was a danger of being exposed to her coworkers and friends, or of losing her focus, or both. But her name was linked to his now, she realized. It was out there forever. The world would take a look and then avert its eyes, and move on. She would too. 

 

Except, she hadn’t moved on. Ida knew there was no good reason to let one casual, consensual encounter affect her in such a deep way. For weeks, she successfully avoided thinking about it. The problem was, she was working incredibly hard to not think about it.

 

After skimming the article, hardly recognizing her own voice in the words, Ida closed the tab and slid the hard copy into her desk drawer, topping a pile of back issues. She needed to work harder.

  
  


***

  
  


The sun vanished. Nighttime found Ida firmly posted in the back of a neighborhood dive bar alongside Stella. She had materialized outside Ida’s apartment building in a lime green Lyft, her voice floating up to Ida’s window and demanding she leave the fucking house on a Friday for once.

 

“I really, honestly, cannot believe you right now,” Stella sighed, reaching to grab Ida’s drink off its coaster. Ida glanced up from her journal and snatched back the glass with a smirk. 

 

“Believe it,” she replied. “This is the best possible place to observe people and write stories, develop characters. It eases my anxiety in places like this, I’ve told you that before.”

 

Stella rolled her eyes, though she stopped mid-roll, remembering her manners. “I figured you were being metaphorical about it. I didn’t think you actually came into bars with paper and pen like you’re a fucking research scientist. Have you ‘observed’ the guy up front who keeps making up excuses to walk past us?”

 

“I have,’ said Ida. She looked over at the man in question. Sure enough, his eyes darted in the direction of their table from behind his horn-rimmed glasses. “He’s cute, I guess.”

 

“Then go get him before I do.”

 

“He isn’t really my type.”

 

“Ida, I’ve never seen anyone more ‘your type’ in my life. I bet he smells like old books or something ridiculous like that.”

 

“Well, then, he’s hardly your type, either.”

 

Stella shrugged. “Any port in a storm.”

 

“Oh. I wasn’t aware that there was any storm.”

 

“Well, you didn’t really ask,” Stella retorted, sudden blossoms of red staining her cheeks. “You’ve barely said or done anything since we got here, much less ask how I’m doing. I thought you might want to hang out and get a break from work, and here you are doing more work.”

 

Ida cringed, and looked down at her uninspired scribbling. She knew Stella was right, and shame swept through her chest. The evening had gone by in a daze as she retreated further into her own brain. “You’re right. I’m sorry, I’ve been a dick. How was your week? I promise I’m not just asking because you want me to. I was gonna tell you, I saw your billboard on La Cienega.”

 

“Ugh. Don’t even. Barely anything on that sign is my work,” Stella groaned, taking the third cherry out of her drink. She’d moved on from her annoyance with Ida with staggering speed. “What I had in mind was gorgeous, and yet again fucking Carlos had to hack it to pieces-”

 

Ida didn’t hear the rest. Her phone began to buzz on the table, the plaintive insistence growing with each ring. She knew before seeing the number.

 

“Sorry, love,” she stammered, reaching out to pat Stella’s shoulder. “Listen, there’s a family thing, I gotta go take this-”

 

She grabbed her phone and didn’t hear Stella’s response as she scrambled to get up to the front and exit into the quieter, cooler air outside. The last ring was cut off when she answered.

 

“I don't like being kept waiting,” Clark deadpanned in her ear before she had a chance to get out a greeting.

 

“Good thing the world doesn't revolve around you, then,” she shot back. Her heart flipped - it was still so effortless.

 

“Touchy. I caught you at a bad time. What would a girl like you be doing on a Friday night? No way you're actually out enjoying yourself.”

 

“I am,” Ida said. “Our work is over, Clark. This isn't appropriate.”

 

Clark scoffed. “Hmm. Interesting. Wasn't appropriate when you were naked on my bed, begging for me to fuck you, either. But here we are.”

 

The image of that moment was still debilitating. Ida chose to ignore his goading as best she could. “Do you need something?”

 

“Y’know, baby, if I didn't know any better, I’d say you didn't wanna talk to me.” 

 

Ida had figured he might call after seeing the article. The question now was - why? Why did he insist on bothering her now? Why did he feel the need to torment her? Apparently, he hadn't humiliated her enough last time.

 

“Hope you liked the article,” she said flatly.

 

“You know somethin’, I actually did. Few parts, I wasn't too sure about. But you called me smart, which was new. Then you said I was an egomaniac, too. I've seen that before, but I expected something more...inspired from you, I guess. I’m not saying you phoned it in, but a few lines I wondered if you were distracted by something.”

 

Ida hung up. She’d had a scant moment to press her back against the wall, the rough warm brick starting to ground her, before her phone vibrated once again. Maybe it was because she was lightheaded, but she found herself lifting the phone to her ear.

 

“You should come over,” Clark said. “Only if you want to.”

 

He didn't give her the chance to hang up that time. Ida stared at her phone until a stray breeze swept her hair into her vision. Her limbs felt unsteady, unrelated to the strong vodka cranberry she'd been nursing for forty-five minutes. She knew it wasn't the alcohol, because her mind was clear, much like the deep cloudless dome of the dark sky above her. She could hear the voice in her head again for the first time in ages, aware of her own awareness, of the space she occupied. Her eyes followed a motorcycle that zipped past, heading for the freeway. 

 

She slipped her phone into her pocket and went back into the bar, past a procession of buzzing neon beer signs, to find Stella.

  
  


***

  
  


Clark opened his front door at 11:37pm. Ida didn't move to step inside.

 

“ _ Fuck you _ ,” she said.

 

Clark leaned against the doorjamb. “You're letting in mosquitoes.”

 

“Good. I hope you fucking get bit.”

 

“Did you drive from central LA to Malibu to make sure I got bit by mosquitoes?”

 

“You should be fucking grateful I decided to write about you. I gave you the biggest image update you've had since you left your stupid fucking band 45 years ago. I didn't have to do that.”

 

“You did, though,” Clark drawled, checking his watch. “It’s your job.”

 

“I'm not your fucking puppet, you piece of shit.”

 

“Never said you were.”

 

“You know, for a second I thought I was genuinely seeing a side of you no one knew. Turns out, that's just how you get into people’s pants. I said you were smart because you're way more of creep than I gave you credit for. Congrats, I’m an idiot, you won.”

 

Color rose in Clark’s face, but his voice stayed even. “I don't really know what you're talking about. I invited you over figuring you might be bored. I know I am. Not that I don't enjoy having you stand outside and throw weak jabs at me, but are you coming in or not?”

 

The fire in Ida’s chest died. She stared at Clark for a long time. Then she stepped inside, just enough for him to shut the door.

 

“Welcome back,” he said. 

 

“I'm not staying. I just got bit by a mosquito.”

 

“Sorry to hear that.”

 

He'd been out somewhere. There was no other reason he'd be wearing a dress shirt this late. His tie hung loose around his neck, a deep blue silk. His shoes were still on. Perhaps he'd come home mere minutes before her arrival. Had he counted on that? Or had he expected her to take longer, agonizing over whether to stay or go? Uncertainty burned her skin.

 

“Where'd you go tonight?” he asked softly.

 

“Out. A bar.”

 

“Poor you.”

 

“I was with a friend.”

 

“You leave her there?”

 

“She went home with a guy she'd picked out for me. Probably happy I left.”

 

“I don't see you being all that fun in a bar,” Clark said, the teasing tone in his voice muted for once. “Good reason, too. So much vulnerability everywhere. It's hard to watch, right?”

 

Ida wasn't sure how to answer. Once, she'd seen through him with complete transparency. Then, she'd seen through him another way, just as sure as before, or so she thought. When Clark kissed her, she was back to square one. He'd seen through her first.

  
  


***

  
  


“Isn’t that exhausting?” Clark said without turning. He sat on the other side of the bed, facing the nightstand. Ida, covered with his thin sheet, fixed her eyes on his bare back and shoulders as he did whatever the hell he was doing out of her line of sight.

 

“What’s exhausting?” she asked. “Sex with you? That’s presumptive.” In truth, she was trying not to fall asleep, but he couldn’t know that.

 

“Not what I meant,”  Clark replied, and she could hear the smile in his tone. “But you seem tired to me. No, I mean, isn’t it exhausting for you to be thinking all the damn time?”

 

“You should try it. Thinking.”

 

“For once, I’m being serious. Your brain is constantly in high gear.”

 

“How do you know that?”

 

“I can feel it.” Clark turned to face her, swinging his legs onto the bed and offering a small glass pipe. Ida took it and allowed him to light it for her, though she was more than capable of lighting her own bowl.

 

“How so?”

 

“The way you tense up. And how you’re fully there, but your eyes say you’re having eighty different thoughts at a time.” His eyes sought hers out, and she sensed his sincerity. “We don’t need to do this, if you’re not comfortable.”

 

Ida exhaled, and passed the bowl back to him. “I do want to do it. That’s the issue.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Why what?”

 

“What’s the issue?”

 

So many rationalizations sprang into Ida’s mind at once that she remained silent.

 

“...You know what, that’s fine. We don’t have to talk about it.” Clark took a hit, then set the bowl aside. He took hold of Ida’s chin and kissed her. The smoke filled the sliver of space left between them and dissipated on her tongue. “I don’t think talking’s our strong suit.”

 

“I’d argue we’re too good at it.”

 

“Course you would, Ida. Try not arguing with anyone, or anything, for five seconds. Might feel nice.”

 

Before she could snipe back, Clark was kissing her again. This seemed to be his genius plan to keep her quiet. She didn’t have much of a problem with that, only she realized that she was still naked when his hand skimmed her side. Goosebumps rose all over her. He’d put boxers back on, but that could be fixed. As he gathered her in his arms Ida leaned into his touches, letting her own hands roam and appreciate his body. It was hard to reconcile what she saw and felt with his age, but even that didn’t bother her much anymore. It had taken coming back to Clark to make some of her barriers fall away. She’d missed him, and that was a mistake on her part because she’d be leaving soon, no matter how intimate it felt to sit in his lap and focus on only him. This developing arrangement wasn’t what Ida was looking for in life, but it was what she had for now.

 

“If parts of the article didn’t sound good,” she said as Clark slid the sheet off her body, “that’s because someone else rewrote it.”

 

“Hmm,” he hummed against the skin just above her breast. “Is that so?”

 

“Mhm.”

 

“What was it you didn’t write?”

 

“I never called you an egomaniac.”

 

Clark’s gaze met hers again. He seemed caught off guard. “You didn’t?”

 

“No. To me, that’s not professional. And it’s not true, either.”

 

“It isn’t?”

 

Ida laid back on the pillows and he followed. His arm locked around her waist, and he kissed her neck, but it was lazy, lost in thought. Ida leaned into it, relishing how warm and solid he was, staying silent but willing him to come back to her.

 

“Maybe I can see the original sometime,” he commented after a pause. “Just so I know you’re telling the truth.”

 

“Maybe,” she replied. Clark was already moving on, scoring her breast with his teeth while his hands moved lower. The renewed energy wasn’t lost on Ida at all, and she fed into it. Her hands tangled in his hair and tugged, scratched his scalp, and when she heard the low growl she’d been fantasizing about for weeks, she knew she had him. His mouth moved from her stomach to her inner thigh, working hard at leaving as many marks as he could.

 

Ida found her words, for just long enough. “You didn’t strike me as the type to give instead of receive.”

 

Clark was ready for her. “I know this might surprise you, but you don’t know everything about me.”

 

He didn’t give her a chance to rebut. Within seconds of him having his mouth on her, Ida decided to pick up the thread of conversation another day. In this area, she’d severely underestimated him. 

 

When she left Clark’s house, legs still unsteady, sky still dark, Ida knew they were establishing a pattern.


End file.
